


Bestow

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Inheritance, M/M, Married Couple, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 05:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18584410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Hayato has offered smiles in answer to a dozen thinly-veiled insults, has given back calm in reply to a handful of pointed questions about his intentions for the line of inheritance after himself, until finally he feels himself crackling with energy, as if the patience-lengthened fuse on his temper is finally snapping its way down to the inevitable explosion." Hayato takes time out from his family inheritance ceremony to work out some of his tension on his husband.





	Bestow

Hayato’s patience holds through the whole of the ceremony. There are many things he has left increasingly behind him as the years passed: the precise clarity of his vision, for one thing, and some measure of the ease of his movement, as muscles delay in their response and his joints creak protest with each new stress he places upon them. His reckless haste, however, is something he doesn’t regret losing in the least; he’s happy to leave that to his teenage self, along with the desperation to prove himself and his value to those around him even at the cost of his own safety. Time has eased the anxiety of self-doubt and offered the comfort of security in his own position, until even the inherent stress that comes with returning to his long-ago childhood home is something Hayato is able to bear with no more than the set of his jaw and the tension in his handshake to give him away. He maintains his composure through the inheritance ceremony, presenting precisely the cool self-assurance that befits his new position as head of the family, and he lingers after as well, keeping his expression neutral and his voice level as he accepts the congratulation of those who called him bastard, who he knows without being told hoped him dead over the years after he ran away from these same walls. There is some satisfaction to his presence now, a bitter vengeance to the simple fact of his survival and ultimate success in being here in this moment, but Hayato is still grateful to the decades he has had to learn calm for himself for the bland politeness it gives his smile and the smooth grace it lends his words.

Even so, there is only so much he can bear. Hayato has been anxious about this visit for weeks, has kept Takeshi busy on a nightly basis working free the knots of strain that accumulate in his shoulders and down the line of his spine from dread of this, and he can feel even the carefully-learned restraint he has on his temper beginning to fray as the night wears on. He’s offered smiles in answer to a dozen thinly-veiled insults, has given back calm in reply to a handful of pointed questions about his intentions for the line of inheritance after himself, until finally he feels himself crackling with energy, as if the patience-lengthened fuse on his temper is finally snapping its way down to the inevitable explosion. He cannot remain without risk of an outburst, cannot predict what kind of damage might result from such a faux pas; so he steps aside from the main part of the hall, and he looks for Takeshi.

It’s easy to find the other. The last decades have brought Takeshi into the full height his athletic youth promised, and consistent training has filled him out into a lean grace that he has only grown more comfortable in over the last several years. His movement is fluid enough to draw the eye to him in any crowd; in present company his ethnicity marks him out from the Italians surrounding him as clearly as the bright of his laugh as he tips his head back into an unrestrained burble of sincere delight. Hayato’s gaze touches the soft of Takeshi’s hair, skims against the thrum of laughter taut in the line of his throat and kisses the triangle of skin left bare by his open collar and the absence of the tie he never has learned how to properly wear, and as Takeshi’s laughter eases and his chin lowers his gaze slides across the room to find Hayato’s as if the weight of the other’s attention was as clear as a shout. Hayato meets Takeshi’s gaze only for a moment, just long enough to tip his head in the direction of the double doors leading from the room, but he doesn’t need to wait to see the other’s nod of understanding any more than he lingers to watch Takeshi turn back and make his polite apologies to the guest with whom he’s been speaking. Hayato turns aside at once, taking advantage of the lull in his own social obligations and the focused set of his expression to clear the path for him to slip through the crowd and out of the doorway in advance of the stride of Takeshi’s long legs.

Hayato turns as soon as he’s free of the banquet hall to make his way down a corridor he knows only as well as the ghosts of childhood nostalgia can recall it. He doesn’t slow his stride, doesn’t look back over his shoulder, but he hears the sound of the door behind him opening to spill the sound of the banquet out into the hallway, and then the tread of footsteps scuffing on the speed of an easy jog. Takeshi only slows his movement as he falls into pace alongside Hayato, and even then it’s only to shorten his own stride to a perfect match of the other’s so they can move forward together as Takeshi ducks in to murmur for Hayato’s hearing. “Everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” Hayato says in a more normal tone than the soft of Takeshi’s question. “Things are going as well as I expected them to.”

Takeshi makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “You kind of look like you want to punch something.”

“Yeah,” Hayato says. “Like I said. As well as I expected.” He draws to a halt in front of a heavy wooden door so he can reach for the handle and draw it open. Hayato hadn’t slowed at all, as far as he knows, but Takeshi stops next to him as easily as if Hayato had told him this was their destination, and when Hayato pulls the weight of the door open Takeshi steps forward and into the room without waiting for Hayato’s gesture of invitation. Hayato follows to step through onto the plush carpet of a room outfitted in the same dark opulence that the door indicates, and pauses to draw the door shut behind them as Takeshi moves farther forward into the space.

“Where is this?” Takeshi asks. Hayato turns the lock over before he turns to see Takeshi standing in the space before the heavy desk, his hands in his pockets and head tipped back to consider the arch of the ceiling curving above them. “Is this a study?”

“Was it the books that gave it away?” Hayato asks, his tone heavy with rhetorical teasing. Takeshi tips his head to smile back over his shoulder, looking perfectly unruffled at the edge of Hayato’s voice, and Hayato’s own mouth tightens at the corner in spite of the tension he’s been carrying in him for the last day. “It’s the head’s room. My father used it for his study and private meetings with trusted advisors.”

Takeshi’s eyebrows lift. “It’s your dad’s office?”

“Not anymore,” Hayato says. “It’s mine, now.” He ducks his chin to gesture past Takeshi standing in the middle of the room and towards the far side of the desk. “Go and sit down in the chair.” Takeshi tips his head to look back in the direction Hayato indicated before he moves to circle around the edge of the desk so he can obey, and as he moves to round the corner Hayato reaches for the knot of his tie cinched close to his throat and lifts his chin so he can slide it loose by a few inches and ease the pressure that’s felt stifling since he got dressed this morning. It’s a relief to loosen his tie, and more of one to unfasten the topmost button holding his collar closed, and by the time Takeshi is dropping to a languid sprawl in the chair Hayato indicated Hayato himself is shrugging out of his jacket so he can fold it over on itself and drape it over his arm.

“I never used to be allowed in here.” Hayato steps forward from the doorway so he can spread his coat across the clear space of the desk in front of Takeshi’s loose-limbed recline in the chair; Takeshi watches him approach, the clear gold of his gaze fixed full on Hayato as if he’s the most interesting subject in the whole of the room around them. Hayato smoothes his coat to tidiness before touching his fingers to the top of the desk and trailing his touch over the polished surface as he draws wide to pace around the desk with slow deliberation to his tread. “Father didn’t want to have children interrupting his work. I used to stand in the doorway, waiting for someone to come in or go out just so I could catch a glimpse of what was inside.” Takeshi turns in the chair as Hayato approaches him, pivoting his position so he can turn the whole of his attention to the other as Hayato steps forward to stand in front of him, one hand still resting against the top of the desk. The surface is polished to a sleek shine; Hayato wonders if he might be able to see his fingerprints against that brilliance, if even the weight of his touch right now is leaving signs to mark the room as his own, now, as he never used to imagine it would be. “Now it’s all mine.”

“You’re the head of the family,” Takeshi agrees. “You can do whatever you want.” His head tips to the side and he blinks up at Hayato with unrestrained curiosity clear in the bright of his eyes. “What do you want to do, Hayato?”

“In general?” Hayato shrugs. “I’m not sure. This all seems a little unreal right now, to be honest.” Takeshi flashes a grin up at him and huffs the start of an answering laugh that pulls the corner of Hayato’s lips into a curve in spite of himself. “I know what I want to do with the next ten minutes, though.” He brings one foot forward to fit into the gap between Takeshi’s and angles his knee to bump to the inside of the other’s thigh. “Spread your legs, Takeshi.”

Takeshi’s lashes dip, the dark weight of them drawing dusk over the bright of his gaze as his mouth softens, his easy smile melting into slack anticipation; but he doesn’t voice the least protest, doesn’t even hesitate in tilting his knees wider in immediate obedience to Hayato’s demand. Hayato lifts his hand to his hair to push the weight of the silver back from his face and tuck it into place behind his ear before he reaches to brace at the arm of the chair Takeshi is sitting in so he can lower himself to kneel between the other’s feet. Takeshi slides his legs wider still, slouching into the support of the chair as he fits one arm against the other armrest and tightens his grip against the support, and when he speaks his voice is low, husky in the back of his throat as Hayato lifts his hand from the table to reach for the front of Takeshi’s slacks. “This is what you want to do?”

“Sure is,” Hayato says without looking up. “Do you have any complaints?”

Takeshi shakes his head hard enough Hayato can see the movement without lifting his gaze from pulling open the zipper of Takeshi’s pants. “Won’t someone miss you at the party?”

“Maybe,” Hayato says. “I don’t care. I’ve been playing nice with people who don’t like me any more than I like them all day.” He draws Takeshi’s zipper open so he can slide his fingers inside the crisp fabric and find the gap at the front of Takeshi’s boxers; the other is going hard before Hayato even touches him, his cock swelling with no more than the suggestion of Hayato’s intentions to urge it to fullness. Hayato draws Takeshi out of his clothes, freeing the other from the fabric before pushing boxers and slacks together down to the base of the other’s cock and settling his grip to intention around Takeshi’s length before casting his gaze up through the fall of his hair to meet the shadowed heat in Takeshi’s eyes on him. “I’m the head of my family now, and if I want to blow my husband in my study there’s no one to tell me I can’t.”

Takeshi’s lashes flutter impossible weight over his gaze, his lips shift apart on a soundless huff of air. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Hayato says, and reaches out with his free hand to grip tight against Takeshi’s hip to hold the other still against the support of the chair beneath him. “Now shut up and let me suck your dick, Takeshi.”

Takeshi offers no protest at all to this demand as Hayato rocks forward to duck his head over the other’s lap. Takeshi is hardening in his grip, his cock answering the persuasion of Hayato’s words with the same willingness that always tightens a knot of deep-down satisfaction at the base of Hayato’s spine; by the time Hayato is parting his lips to press his mouth against the head of Takeshi’s cock he can feel the heat of the other’s arousal throbbing against the grip of his fingers in time with the thud of his heartbeat. Hayato softens the tension of his mouth, lets his lips go soft and gentle as he presses them to Takeshi’s length, and when he lets his jaw ease to open his mouth and take Takeshi in over his tongue Takeshi answers him with a groan all the way in the back of his throat, the sound of want and pleasure so perfectly familiar that Hayato feels his own cock swell in anticipation. Takeshi’s fingers touch at Hayato’s hair, the weight of his hand pressing close to stroke through the weight of the pale locks, and Hayato flexes his fingers at Takeshi’s hip, and draws his hand down to grip at the very base of the other’s cock, and presses closer to swallow the whole length of Takeshi’s arousal back over the slick shift of his tongue.

Takeshi isn’t quiet. He never has been, that Hayato has known, except on those occasions when the risk of exhibitionist thrill was paid for with a need for secrecy, and even then Hayato often has to press a palm tight over Takeshi’s parted lips to hold back the whimpering heat that sounds so telltale loud to his own ears. With a locked door between them and any intruders Takeshi has no motivation to stifle the appreciation in his throat, and he doesn’t; his voice strains in his chest and purrs up his throat to spill into moans loud enough to fill the dark space of the study entirely. The thought hums satisfaction in Hayato’s mind, the idea of filling the forbidden shadows of his father’s study with the unfettered heat of Takeshi’s pleasure, and that urges him onward as much as the hand at his head gentle enough to be more a caress than a demand. It is Hayato who draws Takeshi farther into his mouth, who presses his lips close to the other’s shaft and slicks his tongue up against the heat of the head, and in answer Takeshi shudders against the hold Hayato has at his hip and lifts his free hand to steady himself against the fixed point of Hayato’s head over him, as if seeking support from the cause of the sensation unraveling his composure. Takeshi’s thighs tremor around Hayato’s shoulders, his fingers flexing and easing in the other’s hair, and Hayato keeps moving, finding and holding to an unflinching rhythm to pull more of those quivering moans free of Takeshi’s lips to spill against the walls of the study around them.

“Oh,” Takeshi gasps, as his fingers slide, as his breathing catches. “ _Hayato_.” His left hand falls to the back of Hayato’s neck; Hayato can feel the band of metal around Takeshi’s finger warm at his skin, as if it’s glowing with the heat that Takeshi always bears in every inch of his body. It’s Hayato who runs cold, sometimes enough to give up composure in favor of cuddling close to Takeshi’s radiance even in professional settings, but he’s hardly lacking for heat at the moment, with his knees braced wide at the floor between Takeshi’s feet and his shoulders flexing to hold Takeshi still for the persuasion of his lips and tongue together. Hayato’s cheeks are flushed, his heart pounding, and with every throaty moan or unthought whimper in Takeshi’s throat he feels himself glowing warmer, his whole body tightening as if it is his arousal rising to a fever pitch as much as that of the man shaking before him.

Hayato knows when Takeshi is going to come. Years of thorough practice have given him more than enough experience; even if he couldn’t feel the heat of Takeshi’s cock heavy on his tongue, even if he didn’t have the languid ease of Takeshi’s body relaxing into inevitability under his hold, he thinks he could know just from the weight of the other’s breathing as it settles into the depth of his chest, as gasping inhales darken to the shadow of impending pleasure. Takeshi goes slack in the chair beneath him, his legs spread wide, his hands heavy at Hayato’s hair, his shoulders relaxed; Hayato doesn’t need to look up to know his head will be tipped back against the headrest, his lips parted on his breathing and his eyes shut to the distraction of vision. Takeshi’s fingers press to Hayato’s hair, his thumb sliding to stroke down as Hayato dips his head to take the whole of the other’s length over his tongue; and then Hayato licks up to suck pressure at the head of Takeshi’s cock, and Takeshi’s whole body shudders, his throat flexing to give up a note that breaks from groaning depths to startled height as it rides the jolt of orgasm that ripples through him. Hayato grips the harder at Takeshi’s hip, digging his fingers in close to hold the other steady as Takeshi spends himself against Hayato’s hold and over Hayato’s tongue. He comes in long pulses of heat that stretch the farther for the unresisting ease of his body, and by the time he’s gasped through the last he’s heavy against the chair, all the strength in him spent to leave him languid with complete contentment.

Hayato draws back gently, keeping his hold on Takeshi’s hip as he does. Takeshi sighs as Hayato draws his mouth away, sounding satisfied as much as resigned to the inevitable separation, and even after Hayato has swallowed his mouth clear and pushed a hand through his hair before looking up Takeshi is still reclined in the chair before him, every line of his body languid with proof of his release. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth soft, his shoulders easy; he looks as blissfully content in this moment as he does in their bed, or wherever Hayato sees fit to persuade him into this particular variety of absolute surrender. Hayato can feel the pleasure of it glow in his chest, can feel desire pulse heat into his cock at the inside of his slacks, and then Takeshi lifts his head from the support of the chair with clear effort and open his eyes to give Hayato a half-lidded smile as casually sensual as the sound of pleasure that spilled from his throat.

“That was great,” he says, with his usual unselfconscious honesty. He tips his head to the side and lifts one hand to stroke Hayato’s hair back over his ear. “Want to trade?”

Hayato shakes his head. “No,” he says, even though the thought of Takeshi on his knees with his lips parted and his eyes still cloudy with the heat of his own orgasm is a strong persuasion. He draws a breath and huffs it out, shaking his head to bring himself back to the present as he pulls Takeshi’s clothes back into order with efficient haste. “I need to get back to the reception.”

Takeshi hums in the back of his throat and turns his head to watch Hayato as the other pushes to his feet to stand over him. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

Hayato tosses his head. “It’s not about being fair,” he says. “It’s about me getting what I wanted.” He offers a hand to Takeshi to help urge the other to his feet. “I’m not planning on being fair with you when we get back home tonight, either.”

Takeshi’s lashes flutter dark over his gaze as he lifts a hand to clasp his fingers tight around the support of Hayato’s hold. “That sounds like fun.”

“For now,” Hayato says, and pulls hard. Takeshi’s shoulders flex, his grip tightens, and Hayato draws him to his feet in a wave of motion as elegant as the ripple of pleasure that coursed through him. “We’ll see what you think an hour into it.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, his lips curving onto a smile as he leans in towards Hayato’s mouth. “That sounds like a _lot_ of fun.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Hayato tells him, but he’s smiling too, and when Takeshi laughs and ducks in to kiss against his mouth Hayato reaches up to brace at the back of the other’s head and hold him still for a more thorough interlude. By the time he lets him go Takeshi’s lashes are weighting over his eyes again and his mouth holds to the shape of Hayato’s so clearly Hayato is sure it will be clear to see when they rejoin the rest of the party. The thought makes him smile to himself, softer and hotter than what he offered to Takeshi, and when he lets Takeshi go so he can refasten his collar and cinch his tie into place Takeshi lingers close to him as if waiting for another kiss. Hayato ignores him entirely as he smoothes his tie into alignment and settles his coat back over his shoulders; it’s only after he’s turned over the lock in expectation of their reemergence that he turns back to reach up and catch his hand at the back of Takeshi’s neck again. Takeshi surrenders at once, leaning in to give up his advantage of height for the demand of Hayato’s hold, and Hayato takes his time in the kissing, until he feels as heavy-lidded as Takeshi by the time they separate.

“Later,” he says, and turns to pull the door open. “Don’t forget.”

Takeshi catches at the weight to hold it open as Hayato steps out into the hallway. “I won’t,” he says, bright and glowing with satisfaction and anticipation as he skips forward to fall into pace with Hayato before he leans down to murmur at his ear. “I’m looking forward to it.” Hayato scowls a mock grimace and swings his elbow into the illusion of a blow, which Takeshi takes with a laugh, and by the time they step back into the banquet hall to rejoin the stilted politeness of the gathering, Hayato’s smile comes as easily to his lips as Takeshi’s.


End file.
